Curiosity
by Pink.And.Black.Converse
Summary: Everyone's had /those thoughts/. Even Harry Potter himself. But the question is whether or not he'll act upon his thoughts...if they're really even his.


**Because we all have had thoughts like this.**

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He found that, when he felt alone, a dark voice came to him from somewhere inside himself. It told him to do things. Horrible things, yes, but enthralling nonetheless.

Sometimes, he didn't even know why he bothered with anything at all. _'It would be so easy,'_ he told himself in his darker moments, _'to just end it all. To escape from all of this pain.' _Or perhaps it was the voice, oddly familiar. Either way, he listened.

He could do it effortlessly, he knew. All it would take was a potion. Maybe he'd make a Sleeping Draught with much too much emphasis on the 'sleeping'. What was it Snape had mentioned? The Draught of Living Death….

But he _didn't _want to be living at all sometimes! So, no potions then. He wasn't sure how to make a death potion, and the last thing he needed was to be found attempting to off himself.

A Dementor's Kiss…well, that would leave him alive, too. But then again, he wouldn't have a soul. He wouldn't be able to feel or think or communicate. But with powerful Healers and Dumbledore around, he couldn't be absolutely _sure_ that it was impossible to be brought back.

And that's always where his thoughts ended. Because, much as it would humiliate him to have anyone know, Harry Potter was afraid of pain.

Yes, he dealt with it when he must. He'd had broken limbs, basilisk bites, and many other types of pain. But none of it was self-inflicted. As much as the idea appealed to Harry, taking a knife to any part of his body was horrifying.

And always, _always, _there was the thought of it not working properly. If all he managed to do was hurt himself a little (a lot?) and live, people would never let him alone again. And that's all he truly wanted. Peace.

_'Why has this happened to _me_?!' _He would think angrily.

His number was up the first time with old MouldyShorts. When his parents died that night, he should have gone, too.

And again, at ages eleven, twelve, fourteen, and possible fifteen, Harry Potter should have been dead. And yet, he managed to survive with less and less effort on his part.

And as he lay in his small bedroom at number four, Privet Drive, Harry Potter's owl hooted reassuringly.

_'Snowy owls,' _he realized quite suddenly, _'are quite amazing. They're so very beautiful…'_

A horrid thought came to him, as such thoughts often do when one is already upset. Harry had seen many wonderful things in the world; beautiful things. Impossible things. And those things made him absolutely sure that there was a God.

He had witnessed miracles many a time in his life. So how could Harry Potter have seen what he'd seen and survived all those times without being able to believe there was something more out there?

He couldn't manage to convince himself that there wasn't.

_'And so,' _Harry thought angrily, _'there's a God; why then, does he give me all of this to deal with? How can I possibly survive? It's sick, the way he jokes with me. Keeping me alive to see me miserable. Letting me survive on sheer luck, then killing those I love. Taking Sirius right before my own eyes.'_

Hermione must have noticed his emotions, because she had once held him reassuringly and told him that God didn't ever give anyone more than he or she could handle. That everyone had a purpose in life, and Harry's was so important that he just couldn't die.

And Harry then wondered cynically how that could be so. If he ever did pluck up the courage to take a knife to his neck, did that mean he wouldn't bleed himself dry? That it would heal immediately?

He severely doubted it.

And this life mission, well that _must_mean killing Vold-e-Mart, right? And then, just maybe, could Harry go out of this dreadful world peacefully?

Right, and Slytherins would dress in pink Muggle skirts, prancing around the Great Hall while singing show tunes.

One night that was quite as typical as any other, Harry sat in the Gryffindor Boy's restroom, knife gleaming evilly on the floor next to him. Skin numbed by a spell, he prepared to do the dark deed that would at last give him rest. He picked up the knife, acquired from an unsuspecting Winky, and poised it upon his right wrist. As he began to bring it down hard, a thought occurred.

If he died, how would he know what this amazing life mission was? Or if there was more than one? What if there really _was _more than one? Well, that settled it, he _couldn't _do this to himself! And as he thought of what he had nearly done, Harry's mind reeled. He barely noticed his scar sear with pain.

Hermione, the Weasleys, Lupin. Everyone he loved. He would have lost him all! What on earth was he thinking these last few months? He had made his choice; he would **not **die.

'_Humans seem to have a knack for choosing precisely what is worst for them,' _the dark voice in Harry's head told him. He didn't hear it, he didn't notice it using words Albus Dumbledore had said to him many a year ago (though with a slightly different message in mind); it was growing weaker already.

'_You're far too curious about the future for _**my **_own good, Potter!' _Voldemort screeched as he was forced out of Harry's soul.

Curiosity killed the cat.

But that night, it saved Harry Potters life.

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**Review?**


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